


bruises

by janteu



Series: lygophilia / begin again [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janteu/pseuds/janteu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Harry, Draco Malfoy is inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bruises

“Now you know what it feels like, Malfoy. How it feels to lose everything you love.”

Harry knows that it’s harsh, but he doesn’t regret it. This war has damaged everyone, and he’s at his limit with pretending that oh, look, Voldemort’s dead so now we’re all going to live lovely, peaceful lives. For him, the Golden Boy himself, that’s just about a bloody lightyear from the truth.

He wants to say something that hurts; something that will resonate. He’s angry, it’s whatever-o-clock in the morning, and after stalking the dark corridors for hours, Malfoy really does seem like the best option. So he turns to stare the other boy down, eyes glinting furiously, and he finally begins to understand.

And then, as soon as he registers the shocked, infuriated look on the other boy’s features, a fist connects with his jaw and his glasses are flying from of his face and across the corridor. It’s dark and he can’t see a thing, but adrenaline courses through his body, heavy gasps reach his ears, and really, for someone like him, that’s enough to go on. Ignoring the pain in his jaw, he springs forward, fisting his hand in his attacker’s robes and relishing the feel of skin on skin as they go tumbling to the floor in a rolling, thrashing heap of robes and sweat and blood. He’s never fought quite like this before; it’s always been at something of a distance, wands raised and spells clashing in bursts of colourful energy. But as wind rushes in his ears and the sharp tang of blood floods his mouth, he’s reminded of how undeniably thrilling it is to kick and slap and swing your arms blindly at your opponent, the sickening cracks and thuds rousing an inexplicable sense of satisfaction from some dark place within.

Right now, all that matters is the feeling of flesh meeting flesh in a furious, heated flurry of limbs; the trickling of sweat down his forehead as it mingles with murky blood. It’s sick; twisted. Exhilarating. He’s stopped thinking by now, running purely on instinct while he grapples blindly at the body before him, only vaguely aware of the bruises staining his skin and the dull ache in his gut and jaw.

The other boy stops, hesitating for a moment, and Harry’s vision momentarily clears; giving him a blurry view of the silvery grey eyes glaring back at him with such fury – such passion. Hatred builds up between them, a raging inferno that slowly consumes him and rekindles the fight in his nearly blind eyes. But what catches him off-guard is the lack of fear and cowardice that he expected to see swimming along with the anger in those silver depths – he expected to see the face of the same boy who had stood before Dumbledore that night on the Astronomy Tower; he expected to see the pure fear and helplessness lurking just below the surface – the kind of fear that left you feeling icy and alone. But what he sees in his eyes is all too familiar. What he sees is suffering and pain; tears and weakness and anger. What he sees is the expression of a boy who really had no choice.

But he doesn’t stop, he feels the wind sweep through his hair as it rushes in through the window and across the corridor, jumping back into action and pinning the taller yet much lighter boy down to the ground before him. There’s nothing he can do to slow down now.

All the rage escalates into something he cannot control, and suddenly his lips are crashing down on Malfoy’s, hands seeking; fumbling. It’s pure insanity – nothing makes sense anymore in this broken world Harry lives in, and he basks in its liberation. They roll along the tiled floor; lips colliding over and over again. Malfoy no longer feels like his rival; his enemy – not under the dark blanket of a roof and most certainly not when their tongues slide against each other and the corridor smells like blood and musk and sweat.

It’s inevitable, he decides – Malfoy is inevitable. And so are the dark, concealing depths of the night and the bruises that sear his skin but don’t quite hurt. He needs this.

He pulls away, gasping for air with wide eyes. His hands are still gripping Malfoy’s shoulders firmly, and his breath catches in his throat again. But even when sweat trickles down his cheek and along his neck, Harry’s gaze does not waver.

Malfoy’s eyes flash and his lips curve into a smirk as he says, breathless,

“Scared, Potter?”

His tone is teasing; taunting – but it holds no malice. The atmosphere is full of a heat unlike anything Harry has ever felt before, and he embraces it, immersing himself in something new.

That’s how it started, and this is where it ends.

Or begins, rather – because it’s in that moment that Harry truly begins to fall.


End file.
